


Means and Will

by Wagontrain



Series: Messiah in Absentia [1]
Category: Fallout 3
Genre: Dark, Drug Use, F/M, Gen, Racism, Tragedy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-12-30
Updated: 2010-12-30
Packaged: 2017-10-14 05:33:03
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 5
Words: 18,916
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/145913
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Wagontrain/pseuds/Wagontrain
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"Americans are not a perfect people, but we are called to a perfect mission." — Andrew Jackson</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

It was so _unfair_.

Bittercup stomped away from Big Town (which she couldn't see now over the horizon anyway), away from the super mutants in Germantown, away from everything. Red said get out, and she was.

 _Going_.

She wasn't new to the Wasteland by any means. The water she'd stolen from Red was delicious in a way non-stolen water never was, and her pockets were heavy with the ammunition Dusty had slipped her before she'd been chased out.

It wasn't like there was anything wrong with sex. Red was a nice girl, but clearly there was something Bittercup was offering that Red just couldn't compete with. She had to put up with other people in her business before; Kimba had been a complete bitch when Bittercup dated Flash, and Shorty just muttered "slut" under his breath when she passed, like he hadn't gotten his. At least Timebomb had the respect to keep quiet about their twenty minutes behind the clubhouse.

Bittercup whined, shucking off her leather vest and using it to block the glaring sun from her fair skin. The dust and rocks were scuffing her black boots (scavenged right out from under the noses of the super mutants at Hallow Moors!) and she could just feel herself burning. If Red was so hung up on Sticky, she could just have him. His cock wasn't too big, wasn't too small, and he kept himself clean, but just like Pappy and Shorty it was just fuck-fuck-fuck BAM and she was left feeling bruised and unsatisfied.

Red could keep the pain in the cunt.

Heh.

She was a whore anyway.

A sudden, shrill blast sent Bittercup diving to the dirt before she even realized it wasn't directed at her. She looked around desperately, trying to place the hideous crackling of rocks burning. Several thousand feet downhill, a man ran for his life, pursued by a trio in menacing black power armor: Enclave troopers. The lead soldier sighted a rifle that glowed emerald even in the glare of the Wasteland sun and fired again, catching the fleeing man and blasting him face-first to the ground. The troopers watched him fall—detached or bored, Bittercup decided from their poses—and when the man didn't rise they turned as one and marched away from the river, westward.

Bittercup lay frozen for endless seconds after the troopers disappeared over a rise. Slowly she unclenched herself, peering in the direction the soldiers left towards, then down at their victim. He was sure to have a few caps on him, and if he'd pissed off the Enclave then maybe he'd have something really valuable. Drawing her pistol—complete with black ribbon around the grip, of course—Bittercup headed down the slope. As she got closer, her hopes for good scavenging dwindled; the guy obviously wasn't wearing anything that would pass for armor, and he didn't have a pack or bags that might hold valuables. "What kind of fuckup goes out into the Wastes without even a canteen on his belt?" Bittercup wondered.

She was rifling his clothes when the man groaned.

" _Fuck_!" Bittercup gasped, falling back on her ass and thrusting her pistol between them. The man writhed slowly, his face contorted in agony. Bittercup took a real look at him: short-cropped hair, a not-unattractive face, and a body that suggested he wasn't unfamiliar with exercise, but the look was ruined by his wound. The back of his shirt had been seared away, and the skin beneath was blistered and scorched red. "Shit," Bittercup muttered, climbing to her feet and holstering her pistol. The man's movements slowed, and she peered at him to see if he'd died: no such luck. Bittercup kicked a rock in irritation, then saw the mark it left in the leather of her boot. "Shit!" she yelled, kneeling down to rub furiously at it. The scratch wasn't going away, and Bittercup gave up with a heaving sigh. She glanced at the man's unconscious form.

"Shit."

It took some doing, but she managed to drag the man up a long concrete ramp to a fort of cars. She laid him out no his belly in the shade and sat down next to him, emptying her pockets. Three clips of ten millimeter ammunition, a packet of molerat meat, several bottles of Aqua Pura, her pouch of caps, a syringe of Med-X and three stimpacks (stolen from Red, that bitch, of course). She tore away the blackened remains of the man's shirt and injected each of the stimpacks around the burn.

"All right, you asshole," she scowled, "You better be real fuckin' interesting."

*

Darkness, and pain.

The man opened his eyes, and neither the darkness nor the pain receded. With a gasp he lifted his cheek from the hard concrete. He flexed his shoulders, feeling the mass of scabs on his back crack and tear. Gritting his teeth, the man pushed off from the ground, only stopping at the sound of a clip sliding into place.

A few feet away a woman sat, a pistol pointed lazily at him. He noted the gaudy ribbon around the grip and, as she gestured, the words "Dirge of Lament" scratched into the side of the barrel.

"You got a name?" she asked. Her tone was carefully modulated to convey disinterest, but he could hear past her feigned attitude.

"Jackson Woodrow," he replied simply.

"Jack. I like it."

She evidently wasn't going to shoot him, so Jackson ventured a question. "Where are we?"

"A bit out from where your Enclave buddies shot you like a bitch," she smirked.

"I got lucky," Jackson said, resisting the urge to shrug.

The woman arched one red eyebrow. "If that's lucky, what's unlucky look like?"

"Dissolved. Into a pile of goo." Jackson hoisted himself carefully into a sitting position and leaned past her extended gun to offer his hand. "Thank you for saving my life."

She started at it for a moment, then put the gun in her lap and took his hand. "Bittercup."

"I'm...I'm sorry?"

"Bittercup. Like a buttercup, but one who knows the harshness of the Wastes."

"Of course," Jackson said slowly.

Bittercup holstered her gun on her thigh. "So what'd you do to piss them off? Enclave vertibirds have buzzed Big Town before, but that was them just taking a look. They seriously hated you."

Jackson nodded, and grimaced as pain shot through his back. "I'm sorry, I'm still..."

"Oh, here," Bittercup said, digging out her syringe of Med-X and offering it to him. Jackson took it and eyed the label.

"Australian morphine?" he asked. "Ah well. It works." With deft motions he found a vein and injected himself. "The Enclave targeted me because I stole something from them."

"Oh that's awesome," Bittercup leaned forward. "What'd you swipe? One of their ray guns?"

"Something far more dangerous," Jackson said, relaxing as the morphine began to take hold. "Information. Ideas."

"...really? That's it?"

"Oh yes. I'm going to do something that the Enclave and the Brotherhood and everyone else have never come close to doing. I'm going to make the Wasteland a better place. I have a plan."

"Pappy had a plan too," Bittercup shot back. "Then we actually got to Big Town and it turned out it was more about running away from the fucking super mutants than it was about partying all the time."

"I'm not talking about some adolescent fantasy," Jackson replied easily. "There are fourteen points. The first..." He lay back down, fatigue and the chem overtaking him. "I'm going north. To what's left of Raven Rock. You should come. It isn't going to be an easy task. I could use you."

"Yeah, I'm not really a joiner. Besides what could you possibly do to make this shithole world better?"

"Everyone has a role to play in the new world, Bittercup."

Sleep was claiming him, but Jackson could see a frown contort her pale features. "Fine, whatever. We all die sooner or later anyway, right? May as well have something interesting to do in the meantime."

*

The trip to Raven Rock was hot, boring and occasionally interrupted by deathclaws. Jack argued that they should sneak around them—which Bittercup completely agreed with—but no one told that to the young deathclaw that caught them coming around an outcropping of rocks. Bittercup got off two quick shots that blinded it, and emptied the rest of her clip into its face as it staggered back. Amazingly it was still twitching after all that, but Jack stopped that with a big fucking rock.

He stopped looking at Dirge of Lament funny after that.

Jack talked a lot about Raven Rock on the way up, about how it used to be the Enclave's main base on the East Coast before the Lone Wanderer had blown it all up. He had a serious mad-on about that.

"Here we are," he said. Bittercup looked between Jack and the non-descript cliff face before them.

"This is it? The awesome Enclave base?" Bittercup demanded. "I don't even see a cave."

"It doesn't do to make everything obvious," Jack kicked at the ground, clearing the dirt and rocks from over a metal panel. He opened it, revealing a set of switches and buttons. He punched in a quick sequence and a section of the cliff face rumbled back, revealing a metal corridor. "There we go."

"Nice," Bittercup said, letting Dirge lead the way inside.

"This cache should have been far enough from the Raven Rock complex to be spared the Lone Wanderer's idiotic rampage," Jack shouted over the camouflaged doors rumbling shut. They were left in total darkness for a moment before flood lights overhead clapped on.

" _Shit_." Bittercup muttered. The room they stood in was a massive man-made cavern, dominated by the vertibird squatting at its center. Bittercup took it all in; the vertibird, the row of empty power suits ( _those_ gave her a start), the robots in their charging stations, and doorways leading to more loot beyond imagining.

"No, no, they have to be here," Jack said, pushing past her and trotting deeper into the room.

"All of this isn't _enough_?" Bittercup yelled after him. "You could take over the Citadel with all this!"

"It won't come to that," Jack shouted back. "Ah! They're here! They're here!"

Bittercup followed his shouts, and as she rounded the vertibird she found him examining a trio of massive robots. "Okay, so...so what?"

"They're Enclave construction robots," Jack said. "Designed to consume rubble like concrete, metal, rock, et cetera..." Did he actually just say 'et cetera'? "...and use it to build new structures."

"We could build a new Big Town!" Bittercup exclaimed. "Better than anything Red's ever seen."

"We'll make a settlement, but after that something else even more important."

Bittercup was at a loss.

" _Roads_." Jack handed her a well-worn folded sheet of paper. "Number Three."

Opening the paper, she scanned down. "'Connect. Travel, commerce and communication are the lifeblood of the League. Create roads and deputize the trade caravans.' Just what are you up to, anyway?"

Jack sat down on the tread of one of the robots and clasped his hands. "Don't you ever get tired of the Wasteland?"

"Well...yeah." Bittercup sidled down next to him, and produced a battered pack of cigarettes. She offered one to Jack, who shook his head. "But what else is there?" she asked, lighting up.

"The Wasteland isn't going to magically get better," Jack said. "People with the will and," he gestured towards the robots and the vertibird, "the resources have a _duty_ to do what they can to make things better."

"Shit, she replied simply, taking a drag. "Do you actually believe that?"

"It'll be hard," Jack shrugged. "There are people who are going to need to be forced into line. The Brotherhood is going to be a problem."

Bittercup blinked. "You're taking on the Brotherhood?"

"I have a plan."

She eyed his folded paper. "Which number is that?"

"Seven," he replied immediately, taking the paper back. "'Ally.'"

Craning her neck up to look at the robots, Bittercup blew out a puff of smoke. "All right. I'm in."

*

A suit of Advanced Power Armor Mark II lay spread out across the armory's work table, each of its components open and exposed. Jackson tested each servo and circuit in turn; the cache had twenty sets of armor, but only this one was fully functional. It was in better shape than the construction robots, whose delicate electronics had been damaged by the explosions that shattered Raven Rock.

Jackson hefted the armor's helmet, critically examining its blankly malicious visage. After a moment he set it down and picked up a brush, adding a layer of light grey over the armor's shiny black. When the helmet was repainted, he moved on to the cuirass.

"I can't believe you're screwing up that armor," Bittercup's voice said behind him. "It's so _perfect_. Black as midnight and darker than sin."

Jackson turned to see Bittercup lounging against the doorway, one arm stretched over her head. Her typical top and vest were nowhere to be found, and her other hand was dipped into her waistband. "I was just back there in bed, and I got thinking about you." She grinned. "Then I didn't a little more than think." Her skin, Jackson noted absently, exhibited no tan lines at all, a remarkable feat for someone who grew up in the Wasteland. She'd obviously made an effort to clean the grime of the Wasteland off of herself, and equally obviously hadn't discovered the barracks' soap dispenser.

"Don't tell me you've never seen this," Bittercup said, all hips as she sauntered towards Jackson. He realized he should say something, and shook his gaze from her curves. "No. No, I've seen a few women." Perhaps more impressive specimens, but none who would go to such obvious lengths to seduce him.

" _Seen_?" Bittercup repeated, stepping close enough that her nose brushed his. She was almost exactly tall enough to look him in the eye, Jackson realized detachedly. "Seeing is boring. How about doing?" She placed her hands on his shoulders and gently pushed him back until his rear bumped against the work table. With a wicked grin, she slid down to her knees before him, opening his trousers and leering up at him.

Her hands worked into the folds of his briefs, stroking his soft penis enticingly. A frown crossed her features as he failed to rise to her occasion. "I not doing it for you?"

"I'm not an invert, if that's what you mean."

"Whatever," Bittercup answered before pursing her lips around the head of his penis and sliding his length into her mouth. Jackson gasped at the illicit sensation of it, and fought to keep his hips from rocking into her. Wide-eyed he looked down at Bittercup who with one wryly-raised eyebrow defied his restraint by pulling her lips back until merely the head of his penis remained on her tongue and hollowed her cheeks, sucking him back in.

The armory was silent but for Jackson's panting and Bittercup's wet motion. She added her hand, lengthening the slick passage. Jackson let out a shout—of warning, of exaltation, he wasn't sure—and felt himself spasm.

Bittercup pulled back, Jackson's semen splashing hot across her clavicle and shoulder. They stared at each other a moment as Jackson caught his breath and Bittercup stroked his sensitive penis in small motions. "Made me work for that one," she said eventually.

"Thank you," he replied simply.

She blinked in surprise, and he supposed she'd never heard it from the Wasteland trash she'd kept up with before. "Well, I figure it's up to you to thank me the right way later on."

"Of course," he said quickly, helping her off her knees. "Well, I...thank you. Good night." Bittercup smirked at the dismissal and attempt to claim control. She left as she came in, all swaying hips, but this time dabbing at the cooling ejaculate across her shoulder. Jackson deflated against the work table again, and fastened his pants.

*

Over the next few days, Jack worked harder than a pack brahmin examining Enclave equipment. The destruction of Raven rock had shaken the sensitive equipment and though little of it was damaged Jack refused to go out without checking each and every piece.

Bittercup busied herself by exploring the cache. It was really an oversized closet, but it had a room with the most comfortable beds she had ever slept in. The small kitchen was a treasure too, with boxes and boxes of frozen food (Jack had explained at Bittercup's blank expression that 'freezing' is what happens when things get really cold, even colder than the coldest night in the Wastes). The Salisbury steaks and Fancy Lad treats were about the same as you could dig out of any old Super-Duper Mart, but the Enclave apparently really loved something called "Freedom Fries." There was also a water dispenser that had water just as good as Aqua Pura. It didn't burn going down, and it didn't give you the shits like the water you'd get from the river.

"'Dysentery,'" Jack said absently, checking over a laser rifle.

"So why the fuck don't we just stay here?" Bittercup demanded. "We've got food and water, power, ammo...it's safe, clean and nobody's going to bug us here."

"Survival isn't enough," Jack said. He'd taken to wearing his grey power armor all the time, carrying the helmet with him. "We're obliged to think of people beyond ourselves."

"Why?"

"Because we can." Jack motioned her over to a display table that showed a map of the Wastes. He pointed at an area to the east of Scrapyard and south of Canterbury Commons. "We're going to build a town here. With all the wonders the Enclave has to offer, and open to anyone who wants to live there. We'll be the nexus of all the other settlements; Canterbury Commons, Rivet City, Megaton...even the Citadel. Everyone has something to offer, and our Sanctuary will be the venue in which life in the Wasteland transitions from a collection of scavengers to an actual society."

"What if people don't want your society?" Bittercup asked, looking for Big Town on the map. "Folks have done pretty well for themselves without you."

"And they can do so much better with me," Jack retorted. "You only say people are doing well because they're surviving. We can _thrive_. And to the people who would try to tear down my League...there will be consequences."

"Everybody's got a fucking plan," Bittercup said with a shrug. Jack was probably more than a bit bent, but hanging out with him beat spending her days playing tag with yao guai and slavers. "I got all them crates packed into the vertibird." She pointed at the trio of construction robots. "They ready?"

Jack shouldered the rifle he'd been examining and motioned her into the cockpit. "They'll follow along. It's going to be a long flight to the new location, given how slow they move."

Bittercup settled into her seat, puzzling out the straps that made up the harness. Jack touched a control on the vertibird's panel and the outer wall of the cache split and rumbled open. The vertibird rolled outdoors. Bittercup startled at the whine of the rotors spinning up, and lurched as the vertibird lifted off.

" _Shit_ ," She gasped, seeing the ground fall away. Jack spun the vehicle so they could see the construction robots moving out on their treads, and the cache's hidden door closing behind them.

Jack tilted the rotors, pushing the vertibirds slowly south, and Bittercup very quickly realized what airsickness was.

"Check the crate with the red cross on it," Jack said. "It should be full of med kits." Bittercup let herself up, fighting nausea as she made her way back to the cargo area. She cracked the crate's seals, then the seal of the topmost med kit. Inside lay rows and rows of chems; stimpacks, Rad-X, Radaway, Buffout, Psycho, and some less identifiable things. Bittercup popped two Buffout in her mouth and swallowed them quick. She started back to the cockpit—her stomach already feeling stronger—but turned back, eyeing the chems. Emptying out one of her pouches, she quickly stashed away as many of the chems as she could.

The construction robots moved just as slowly as Jack said, and by the time they reached the site he'd picked the sun was setting. A ruined highway arched overhead, and looking to the south the very tip of the Washington Monument was still visible in the twilight.

The construction robots had circled around the vertibird, and at an order from Jack they fanned out, eating rubble with a horrible grinding noise. With his helmet on Jack didn't seem to mind, but Bittercup clapped her hands over her ears.

The robots returned to the vertibird, pouring out walls of liquid rock around it that hardened almost instantly. Sometimes they placed a door or a ladder or some other equipment and poured the wall around that. It took them several trips between the new building and whatever rubble they could find before the hanger was finished.

"It's rough, but it's solid," Jack said, leading Bittercup around the hanger's perimeter. "It's a standard Enclave template. There will be a wing for barracks over there, an area for storage...when they finish the ground floor they'll start on the second, which we can use for conference rooms, an infirmary, a school..." he trailed off. "Beyond the inner walls we'll have areas for brahmin pens, all enclosed by another set of walls. After that I'll have them start on the roads-"

A line of holes blasted out of the fresh wall and Bittercup dove to the ground. Another burst hit Jack, bouncing off of his armor. Over the roar of the construction robots, Bittercup could make out another, more horrifying sound.

" _Raiders_!" she screamed. "Fuck! Run! _Run_!" Before she could, Jack pushed her down behind a small rise.

"This isn't their place," he said. "It's ours." He stood and sighted along his laser rifle, firing blinding light into the darkness. Bittercup stared up at him, scowling, and pulled Dirge of Lament out of its holster.

A dozen raiders ran towards them, firing wildly, with three more burning on the ground, victims of Jack's aim. They ignored the robots, completely focused on the two fresh bodies. Jack fired again and again and Bittercup picked off raiders as quickly as she could, but realized in a moment of blind panic that the raiders were going to reach them.

Frantically she dug into her pouch, producing a bottle of Buffout and a long syringe of Psycho. Grimacing she downed a couple Buffout and stabbed herself in the side with the syringe, hoping desperately that was how the chem was injected.

A loud clatter behind her drew her attention; four raiders rushed Jack, knocking him to the ground and pulling his rifle away. " _I'm gonna fuck you, sweetness! I'm gonna fuck you with knives!_ " one of them shrieked hysterically, crushing a lead pipe against Jack's helmet again and again.

The Psycho kicked in and Bittercup heard two more raiders tearing at her (along with Jack's armor whining, the crackle of concrete setting, and the chitter of bloatflies waiting for corpses). Dirge snapped up and Bittercup fired a bullet through the woman's jaw. The other raider cleared the distance between them and wrestled Bittercup down. He couldn't decide on raping her or eating her, and tried for both. Dirge fired again, blowing the meat off the raider's arm and for a moment all Bittercup could see was _teeth_ as he came at her face.

Her fist came around abruptly and the teeth went flying. The raider stumbled back; his psychotic rage didn't allow for confusion or surprise, but meat didn't usually fight _back_. Bittercup closed, grabbing the pieces of tire he wore on each shoulder and drove her forehead into his nose. That he was dead before his body hit the ground didn't stop her from destroying his face with her boot.

Jack's cry caught her attention, and she suddenly remembered Dirge in her hand. Two of the raiders lay dead around Jack, and the last two were trying to beat and pry the armor off of him. She fired as wildly as the raiders but blowing one of them off of him. His hand shot up, catching the other raider by the throat; the suit's gears whined, and with a horrible cry the raider's neck separated.

They stayed there, panting for a long moment; Bittercup with her hands on her knees, shaking as the chems shuttered through her system, Jack still on the ground clutching his head. "Promise me," Bittercup snarled, "promise me that your League or whatever the fuck it's called is going to kill every one of those sons of bitches."

Jack forced himself up, his armor complaining loudly. "That's point number Four, actually."


	2. Chapter 2

It took four days for the construction robots to complete Sanctuary.

Jackson walked the ramparts, gazing out over the fortress. It was shaped like a set of concentric rings centered around the vertibird; the innermost ring housed the personal space, which the outermost was a simple but tall wall that would stymie any future insults by raiders. He'd sent the construction robots off to begin laying roads: one to the north towards Canterbury Commons and Paradise Falls, and the other two west to Megaton, Vault 101 and the Citadel, Project Purity and Rivet City respectively.

Voices floated up from below. Bittercup stood on the grounds, speaking to a trader in shoddy leather armor and goggles. Jackson had been pleasantly surprised when she'd volunteered to serve as ambassador to their visitor, and doubly so when she carried out the task with grace and aplomb that put lie to her sarcastic demeanor. Everyone has a role to play, he reflected.

The caravan moved off, and Bittercup closed the outer ring's gate behind them before returning inside. Jackson could hear her footsteps on the stairs behind him, and turned to greet her. "Look what I bought!" she enthused, holding up a suit of black combat armor. "It's _perfect_. Or it will be, once I scrub off the stupid claw on the chest."

"It's good armor," he allowed. "What did the trader say?"

"He was willing to make Sanctuary a regular stop. Said he'd put it to the people up in Canterbury. He got really excited about the roads, too."

"Good," Jackson turned to the stairs, leading Bittercup downstairs to the armory. Selecting a laser rifle and plasma side arm, he said "We can start recruiting in earnest today." Bittercup filled her bandolier bags with ten millimeter clips, and made sure that her stimpack pouch was as full as the pouch for her other chems.

They reached the vertibird before she asked "So where are we going?"

"Paradise Falls."

Bittercup strapped in—much more adeptly than previously, Jackson noted—and popped a Buffout to preempt her nausea. "What for?"

The vertibird's rotors spun up, and they jerked into the sky. "To keep a society just, we need to have consequences."

"You're talking about slaving?" Bittercup scowled. "Shit, somebody messes with you, just fucking shoot them. Slaving's just plain cruel."

"Killing offenders would be the quick solution," Jackson replied, angling the vertibird to the north-west. "But there are two was to make something better: remove negative influences, and add positive influences. The draftees can be made into a positive."

Without being slowed by the need to keep pace with the construction robots, the trip to Paradise Falls took scant minutes. The vertibird noisily landed outside the settlement's gates, and by the time Jackson and Bittercup disembarked a woman wearing a pink dress with a Chinese officer's sword on her hip blocked their entrance.

"I'm Clover. The Falls is mine. What the fuck do you want?"

Jackson sensed Bittercup tense towards her pistol and held up his hand. "I'm Jackson. I have a business proposition for you."

"Why didn't you fucking say so?" Clover stepped aside and motioned them into the compound. "Come on back to my pad."

They followed Clover into her home in silence, but a shared look told Jackson just what Bittercup thought of the other woman's hanging erotic sculpture and heart-shaped bed. "Didn't there used to be two of you?" Bittercup asked. "'Crimson and Clover' or some shit?"

"Fuck, Eulogy loved that song." Clover reclined lewdly on her gaudy bed without, Jackson noted, offering her guests a seat. Inconsiderate. "Yeah, Crimson used to be here. But then one day the Lone Fucking Wanderer wandered through and decided slaving's a bad thing. Kacked Eulogy and every other slaver in this place."

"The Wanderer killed Crimson too?" Bittercup asked, surprised.

"No, I did. Knife right through the tit. Made sure she saw it coming." Clover shrugged as best she could while reclining on one arm. "I hated it when Eulogy made us eat each other out as much as she did, but at least I put some fucking effort into it." She looked back and forth between her guests. "So what do you want, anyway?"

"We're building a society in the Wasteland," Jackson answered, "and I need Paradise Falls –-and you—to do your part." Clover looked unimpressed, and he continued. "We're going to need a method by which to punish individuals who break the law, while also keeping their usefulness to society. We're going to draft them."

"And would this 'drafting' happen to involve explosive collars?"

"If that's your protocol."

Clover sat up on the bed, running a hand through her bizarre, half-shaved hair. "There's a lot of money to be made catching whoever the fuck I want and sending them off as slaves."

"While operating under my auspices you would not be allowed to draft any citizen of the League without orders from me or one of my representatives. And I prefer the term "draftees."

"Whatever. The Pitt's started sending requests for slaves again, for the first time since the Lone Wanderer was seen there, so that's a lot of profit I'm losing out on if I just hand the...draftees...over to you. What's in it for me?"

"Three interrelated points," Jackson said, folding his arms. "First, there are always those who object to new things. Anarchists like the raiders, or more socially conservative forces that resist change with all their might. Those people will greatly increase the number of draftees available to you. Second, so long as you are operating with the blessing of the League, you are operating under its protections. Any who disrupt your services will be drafted."

"Even those assholes at the Temple of the Union?"

"If they cause problems, yes," Jackson nodded. "And finally: once we have enough draftees to fulfill our social service goals, any further draftees would be remitted to your authority, to do with as you please."

Clover mulled it over, then hopped to her feet and spat in her palm. "Deal," she said, offering her hand. Jackson accepted, making sure to mask his grimace.

"There will be a robot here within the day, laying a road to link Paradise Falls to the other towns," he said as he and Bittercup started for the door.

"And quick after that, new slaves! Draftees! Hah!" Clover's cackle was cut off by the door slamming behind them.

Bittercup was uncharacteristically silent as they walked to the vertibird. "What's on your mind?" Jackson asked.

"I don't like getting in bed with slavers," she replied, "but people are fucking stupid. There's going to be folks who try to screw up a good thing."

"People who break the rules," Jackson agreed.

"Bad things happen to dumb people," Bittercup smirked. "I can get behind that."

*

For the second leg of the trip, Jack asked Bittercup to take the pilot's seat and with his advice she haltingly flew them south. It took some learning –-the vertibird needed both hands and both feet to make it go right—but Bittercup learned fast and they were already moving more smoothly by the time they set down outside of Vault 101.

"I met somebody from here once," Bittercup said as she pulled open a rickety wooden door set into the craggy hill, revealing a short stone tunnel.

"Let me guess," Jack replied in a voice as poisonous as a radscorpion's stinger, "the Lone Wanderer."

"Yeah," Bittercup stepped inside. "Big Town was getting fucked by super mutants and the Wanderer just showed up and saved the day. Rescued Red too, but I guess everything can't be perfect." Jack shook his head with a scowl. "What? Don't tell me you're sweet on Red or some shit."

"We've never met."

"So what's your problem?"

Jack stopped and folded his arms, the hard plates of his power armor clanking against each other. "There are so many people in the Wasteland who don't have the intelligence, the skill or the motivation to actually make things better. The Wanderer had all three and just...couldn't be bothered to finish the job. Blow up some Enclave bases, but not finish off their holdouts. Kill dozens of super mutants, but not bother to cut off their source. Rescue an old lady's violin, but not stick around to keep even a small area of the Wasteland safe from raiders. The Wanderer had the means and will to have made the world a better place and instead...left."

"Yeah, well..." Bittercup shrugged. "Isn't it good enough to do something right?"

"Not when you can do more."

"At least the Wanderer isn't one of those...one of..." her voice trailed off as she caught sight of a mess of skeletons on the ground before the Vault door. A few signs lay among them. "'Let us in motherfuckers,'" Bittercup read, crouching among the remains. "Imagine it...being trapped out here, hundreds of years ago when the only light came from the atomic fire in the skies, knowing that safety is just beyond the door, but that you'll never see it...dying...dying..." She looked over her shoulder at Jack, who was making exactly the same face Shorty made when he caught her trying out rhyming couplets over the corpse of a molerat. "Uh. Sorry."

"Of course," Jack said dryly. "Shall we move on?"

Bittercup straightened, eyeing the thick door. "We gonna knock or something?"

"After a fashion," Jack hit a button on his armor's belt. "Vault-Tec had a lot of support from the Enclave before the Great War, and certain controls were implemented." A siren began hollering, and the door pulled back with a screeching squeal. When the noise finally stopped, Jack stepped into Vault 101.

They could hear pounding footsteps, and three men in simple security armor burst into the entry chamber. "Who are you? How did you get in?"

"At ease," Jack said, showing his empty hands. "I'm here to talk to your Overseer."

"Oh yeah! Guy in Enclave armor just waltzes in and wants to chat!" One of the guards shouted hysterically, pistol shaking in his hand. "Screw you buddy!"

Bittercup's hand drifted down, though for a moment she wasn't sure if it was going towards Dirge of Lament or the Psycho in her pouch.

"Calm down, Richards!" Another officer snapped. "If they were really Enclave they'd be killing us, not talking." He turned back to Bittercup and Jack. "I'm sorry we're so jumpy. Our first expedition into the Wasteland ran into an Enclave patrol. The older Kendall girl...she didn't make it."

"I'm sorry for your loss," Jack said. Bittercup was about to add something cutting, like 'Guess she didn't learn the first rule of the Wastes: keep your fucking head down,' but something in Jack's voice caught her attention; he really _was_ sorry. "I do need to speak with your Overseer, however."

"I'll call her," the not-sissy guard said. "But I gotta ask, if she says you all have to go, am I going to have a fight on my hands?"

"I very much need to speak with her," Jack said simply. Bittercup felt it was a good time to lay her hand on Dirge's grip menacingly.

The security officer had a quick, low conversation with the intercom on the wall, and soon after Bittercup heard footsteps. The Overseer was young, and seemed awful dark-skinned for someone who lived underground all her life, Bittercup mused, but who knew what these Vault people got up to. Following along behind the Overseer were a guy in a leather jacket with a haircut that screamed 'asshole' and a knocked-up blonde chick. The Overseer looked Bittercup and Jack over, and Bittercup jutted out her chin with a sneer. No way she was taking any shit from a Vault bitch.

"I'm Amata Almodovar," the Overseer said. "What do you want?"

"I need your help," Jack said. "My associate and I are binding the Wasteland into a society; a League. We have access to Enclave technology, but we need educated people to operate it, and to teach the citizens of the League. You residents of 101 have the highest standard of education this side of the Institute."

"I admire what you're trying to do, Mr...?" Amata began.

"Woodrow."

"Mr. Woodrow, yes. But Vault 101 is still getting over an internal philosophical dispute. We're beginning to enter the Wastes, but it's going to be on our terms."

Jack held her gaze. "You and yours have skills that would be priceless to the citizens of the League."

"The lady said we've got our own problems, so shove off!" the asshole scowled.

"Butch, please-"

"You selfish bitch," Bittercup snapped. "You've got clean water, food, shelter, all the electricity you can use..." her frustration caught up with her and she sputtered, "...you've got schools and _poetry_ and you act like they're _nothing_. We don't have any of that out there and you know what? It's fucking cruel of you to keep everybody else down because you're scared of what's outside that thick door."

Jack stepped in before Amata could argue. "The Vault and its resources will remain yours. I only ask that a contingent of Vault dwellers come to Sanctuary to act as instructors and technicians. And if this contingent doesn't come willingly, then they will be drafted via our contract with Paradise Falls."

"Amata," the blonde cleared her throat. "I'll go."

"What...Susie, are you crazy?" Butch gawked.

"Freddie and I don't want our baby to be born in the Vault." Bittercup's lip curled in disgust as the other woman fondled the bulge in her belly. "We want him to have a sky, and dirt and...friends. I can teach, the G.O.A.T. says so." She shrugged. "We've been talking about how we need to open the Vault. Well, no time like the present. Maybe this is a blessing in disguise."

Amata laid a restraining arm on Butch's shoulder, but she wasn't able to prevent his outburst. "You go out there and you're just going to end up like Christine!"

"We are working to create and secure roads between the different settlements," Jack said. "I hope to make Ms. Kendall's death an exception rather than a rule."

"We don't have a choice, do we?" Amata asked slowly.

"Ms. Almodovar, you always have a choice," Jack replied. "But I'm not going to allow you to make the wrong one."

*

The vertibird hovered far above the ground, drifting over the ruined, five-sided building near the river.

"Are you clear on what you need to do?" Jackson asked Bittercup.

"I don't know what you're worrying about," Bittercup said, fighting the vehicle's controls to force it to remain essentially stationary. "You're going to talk them into doing what you want, and if not..." she nodded to the satchel beside her, "...I've got the insurance."

Jackson examined her armor; it would stop small caliber ammunition, at least ablate 5.56 millimeter rounds and probably protect against direct laser rifle strikes, but it seemed like a worryingly amount of her body was unarmored. And she had painted a poem on her left pauldron, titled 'One Hundred and One Rejects.' She'd seemed more concerned with getting the script right than the protection her armor afforded her. "The Brotherhood of Steel is an inherently conservative faction. They're going to resist any sort of change. Be ready for a fight but...I'll get out first. If things go bad, you just take off and get back to Sanctuary." Bittercup nodded, sparing a hand from her controls to open the pouch at the small of her back. Out came a syringe of blue liquid, a half-empty bottle of Buffout and a tin of Mentats, and she lined each up neatly on the console. "I meant that you should wear a helmet and be ready for a fight."

"That too," Bittercup said, popping pills into her mouth. "You ready?"

Jackson settled his armor's helmet over his head, nodding both in affirmation and to test the seals. "Let's say hello."

The roar of the rotors lessened minutely as Bittercup allowed the vertibird to descend. Below tiny power armored figures scrambled to cover, and Jackson motioned to what used to be a parking lot near the Citadel. "There." Bittercup grunted in agreement and settled the vertibird on the concrete. By the time the rotors had spun down safely, a platoon of Brotherhood soldiers had taken position between the vertibird and the Citadel, leveling an impressive variety of weapons at the cockpit.

Jackson opened the hatch and dropped to the ground, the moonlight reflecting off of his grey armor almost obscuring the dozen laser sights that glowed on his chestplate and helmet.

"Drop your weapons! Get down on the ground!" a voice shouted.

"My name is Jackson Woodrow," he replied as the targeting computers superimposed wireframes on the rocks and obstacles the Brotherhood sheltered behind. "I've come to talk."

"We don't talk to Enclave!" the voice replied hotly. The computers located the speaker and projected information about her onto his lenses. T-45d power armor, armed with a laser rifle, and not wearing a helmet. Sloppy. "You're prisoners of war. Surr-"

"We're not Enclave, you fucks!" Bittercup screamed back from behind him, dropping out of the cockpit hatch as the rotors wound down. "We jacked their shit." Crude, but to the point. The Brotherhood wavered, and Jackson slowly raised his hands and unfastened the helmet's connections. He lifted the helmet off with the slight hiss of escaping pressurized air. A laser sight blinded him momentarily.

"My name is Jackson," he repeated, ignoring the churning in his stomach and the pressure in his bowels. "My companion is Bittercup. We're here to talk."

Silence reigned for a long, tense moment. Then Jackson heard one of the soldiers mutter, low enough that he had to strain to hear it: "Enclave wouldn't bring one of the local wildlife around. Maybe he really is a Wastelander who found a stash. The exchange continued more quietly in a terse murmur before the one Jackson's targeting computer identified as the leader rose from cover. Her mess of blond hair stood out in the darkness.

"I'm Sentinel Lyons. We're going to consult the Elder about what to do with you, but give us half a reason and we'll make the decision for him." Jackson spread his arms in acceptance, and Lyons spoke quietly into her radio. Jackson folded his arms across his armored chest, and Bittercup paced behind him with artificial energy. Her motions were quick and precise; the Mentats had kicked in.

Lyons conversation ended and she motioned the rest of her squad to their feet. "You'll be met inside," she said.

Nodding, Jackson pulled the laser rifle off his back and placed it deliberately inside the cockpit. His plasma pistol followed, and with some glowering on her part so did Dirge of Lament. The Brotherhood soldiers did not relax.

Lyons' troops surrounded Jackson and Bittercup, escorting them inside the Citadel. Sentinel Lyons led the way, and though her weapon was shouldered Jackson had no illusions about how quickly she could fire on him if she chose. The Citadel—what had once been known as the Pentagon—was in such ruin that Jackson immediately assumed that the Brotherhood had claimed it for sentimental reasons. They entered the structure through the devastated east side, the walls crumbled and collapsed as a result of ancient destruction and recent neglect. The Brotherhood had made efforts to shore up the deteriorating masonry, but even their best work couldn't hide that their headquarters was a hovel.

Lyons lead them quickly through the center courtyard, where a platoon of initiates –-not yet granted the secrets of power armor—stopped their weapon practice and stared, only resuming their training when their drill instructor thundered by, listing with sharp invectives the real and hopefully imagined shortcomings of the soldiers.

Jackson tried to catch Bittercup's eye as they were hustled down a set of stairs into the A ring. She was wide-eyed and for once had no sardonic comment. They turned a corner and abruptly entered a conference room; an antique wooden table dominated the room and at its head sat an ancient man of fifty or fifty-five in the blue robes of a Brotherhood Elder. Beside him sat an irritated-looking Scribe, several paladins and a young boy: Squire Maxson, Jackson realized. Elder Lyons seemed to be keeping the boy around to instruct him in the intricacies of running the Brotherhood; he whispered comments to the boy who watched the Jackson and Bittercup with wide eyes. Jackson acknowledged the boy and the others around the table in turn. Lyons' squad spread out along the walls, each keeping their weapons in hand.

"Where did you collect your Enclave equipment?" the Elder asked.

"A cache outside of Raven Rock," Jackson answered.

"What else is there?" the Scribe in red interjected.

"Most has been moved to Sanctuary. There are still several crates of supplies and replacement parts, as well as a number of immovable resources."

"Elder Lyons, we should send a team to recover these items," the Scribe demanded. "The technology could be invaluable."

"In time," Elder Lyons responded. "I am curious to hear of this 'Sanctuary.'"

Jackson finally caught Bittercup's eye, inclining his head slightly towards the boy. She frowned, but shrugged. 'Whatever,' he could almost hear her thinking. "My associate and I are trying to rebuild the Wasteland," Jackson began. "For two hundred years there have only been occasional pockets of civilization adrift in a sea of savagery. None of these bastions has been able to extend itself to reach the others, and each has deteriorated for it. Our League will bring the good people of the Wastelands together in a lasting civilization."

"A noble goal. Very noble goal," Elder Lyons said, thinking to himself. "But it seems to me that your efforts are duplicating the Brotherhood's in the DC area. Perhaps if we could roll your resources into the Brotherhood's operations-"

"Are you fucking kidding me?" Bittercup interrupted. The younger Lyons glared at her, and Jackson intervened.

"I admit that I share my companion's distain. You would claim that the Citadel is some sort of stronghold of freedom?" He kicked at the debris littering the floor. "You can't even be bothered to _sweep_. For all your sanctimonious concern for the 'wildlife' of the Wasteland, you're no better than squatters yourselves."

"We are out there helping the people," Sentinel Lyons snapped from her place along the wall.

Bittercup offered a heaving sigh. "There's more to helping people than fighting the Enclave and holding daily shootouts with the super mutants."

"We're also managing Project Purity in partnership with Rivet City security. What do you call that?"

Bittercup circled the table, stopping near the boy and addressing herself to the older Lyons, smirking as the younger Lyons registered the snub. The paladins along the wall watched her warily, but Elder Lyons waved them to stillness. "That wasn't even you guys. The way I heard it, the Lone Wanderer did all the legwork."

"The Wanderer was an invaluable member of the Lyons' Pride," Sentinel Lyons shot back, becoming more enraged as Bittercup refused to turn and face her, "and it is my hope that the Wanderer's travels lead back to the DC area. We can use the help."

"That is an attitude that I _cannot_ abide," Jackson snapped. "With the Enclave gone, the Brotherhood of Steel is the preeminent force in the Wasteland. Yet you're sitting here doing nothing more than carrying out the tasks left to you by your apathetic messiah and pining away for a second coming. The _Lone Wanderer_ has abandoned you. Got bored and left! East to the coast or north to the Pitt. Not here."

"The traders have rumors of seeing the Wanderer pulled into the sky somewhere near Oasis," the Scribe ventured.

"Oh yes," Jackson said, bringing his hands up incredulously. "Abducted by _aliens_. Any fiction to further the legend. It doesn't matter. Your savior couldn't be bothered to do the hard work of actually building a finer world. So we have to." He crossed his arms. "The role the Brotherhood will play in the League is that of support and defense. You will provide the League's backbone."

"Will we now," Elder Lyons asked drily. "And how will we do that?"

Jackson ticked off points on his fingers. "You will continue managing the distribution of Aqua Pura, though on a more limited route. Several of the smaller settlements need to be consolidated, and lack of purified water will encourage them to join one of the better-established settlements.

"How utterly cunning."

Jackson ignored the jab. "You will begin patrolling the roads my robots are creating between selected settlements to provide security. You will also keep strike teams on standby to fend off incursions against League settlements and eliminate raider hovels."

"That's ridiculous," Sentinel Lyons said. "We need those soldiers to deal with the super mutant threat in the DC ruins."

"Which brings me to my next point. You will cease wasting resources on these foolish skirmishes with the super mutants. If you're defending set points, fine. But your running gun battles in the streets are worse than useless."

Before the woman could respond, the older Lyons interjected. "It's clear that you are a thinker, and have your heart in the right place. But your plans cannot be better-conceived than that of the Elder and learned Scribes of the Eastern Brotherhood."

"One man with courage makes a majority," Jackson replied lowly.

Bittercup, forgotten in the bickering, reached into her satchel and with chem-augmented speed pulled out a slave collar and locked it fast around the young boy's neck before anyone could so much as shout in surprise. "I am sure you recognize that," Jackson said over the tumult of shouts and chorus of readying weapons. "Like any of the others like it, it will detonate if tampered with. Unlike other collars, it features an Enclave failsafe. You see the black box on the left side," Jackson pointed to the addition, avoiding the child's terrified eyes. This was harder than he'd anticipated. "It will also detonate if vital signs from either my armor or Bittercup's monitor become terminal." Bittercup pointed at the strap around her wrist with a smile. Jackson settled the helmet over his head, and the suit's speakers distorted his voice. "The Brotherhood has its role to play in the League, and you _will_ play it."

Sentinel Lyons hissed, "Bastard." Her laser rifle leveled at Jackson, its aim trembling from her rage. "He's just a boy."

"He has been drafted into service," Jackson replied.

The Scribe at Elder Lyons' side examined the collar, and Bittercup glared at him. "Don't fuck with that. It'd probably kill everyone in the room."

"I'll be expecting a Brotherhood paladin at Sanctuary by nightfall tomorrow to liaison with the League. You will begin deploying patrols along assigned routes in two days."


	3. Chapter 3

"This is fucking awesome," Bittercup said, pausing in the vertibird's hatch to flick off the Brotherhood soldiers who followed them outside. "Did you see their faces?"

"Squire Maxson is precious to the Eastern Brotherhood in particular and the Brotherhood as a whole." Jack agreed. "They'll be compliant rather than risk losing him."

"So what next?" Bittercup asked, strapping in and throttling up the rotors. "Go make Tenpenny your bitch?"

"After the Wanderer forced Alistair Tenpenny to accept ghouls in his tower, they rampaged and murdered everyone inside. So speaking with Mr. Tenpenny won't be an option. I'm sure the Wanderer was simply astonished that such an altruistic act went so wrong." Jack shook his head as the vertibird lifted.

"Okay, I've gotta ask. How do you _know_ all this stuff? About the ghouls, or about...you knew that kid would be in that meeting, didn't you? You knew his name."

"I did."

"So how do you know?"

Jack sat staring straight ahead, helmet in his lap. "I'll tell you later," he said eventually.

Something curled in Bittercup's gut. "Fine. Whatever." They sat without saying anything for a long while, the roar of the rotors filling the awkward silence. "So where are we fucking going?"

"There are two specific people we need to recruit," Jack replied. "Neither should be as...complicated...as the others. We can split up."

"Oh, oh can we?" Bittercup demanded hotly.

"Well...yes," Jack said, missing the point like an idiot. "Moira Brown is some kind of eccentric genius I'd like to bring into the League. I want you to speak with her in Megaton. And Dr. Li has made innovations in agriculture I'd like to share. I'll need you to drop me off in Rivet City. Don't worry about picking me up; I'll make my way back to Sanctuary with the first water caravan to make sure there aren't any problems."

"I won't worry," Bittercup seethed, spinning the vertibird to the east.

She ditched Jack on Rivet City's flight deck and took off without even a wave goodbye. Bittercup knew the score; this Dr. Li was probably a woman, probably hot and definitely a genius. She'd use big words just like Jack and after that Bittercup was out of the picture. It was the same fucking thing as happened with Sticky and Red and this time Bittercup was surprised to realize that she really _cared_.

 _Shit_.

It wasn't the same, though. The Bittercup's thing with Sticky came down to him having a cock and not being sick of her yet. Jack wasn't anything to look at, aside from that dramatic scar on his back, but he was smart. He was doing things.

He had told her to go.

So she was going, to Megaton.

The sheriff tried to give her some flak after she landed, but Bittercup blew him off. See if he still bitched at her in a few days when the patrols started fucking up the local raiders. It took her twenty minutes to find Brown's store in Megaton's crazy mess of building-shaped debris. By the time she got inside the Mentats were starting to wear off and Bittercup started thinking it might not be a bad idea to see how far up Moira's nose she could get Dirge of Lament if the other woman gave her any shit. Fortunately, or not, the meeting didn't go as she expected.

"Oh, that's a _wonderful_ idea!" Moira enthused, clapping her hands. "A League! A federation of allied towns! We'll have to make t-shirts." The other woman began bustling around the shop. "So much to do! I could open a store in this Sanctuary place of yours. A Craterside Supply franchise! You probably don't have any craters as impressive as the one here, but what can you do. I don't want to close this shop though..." she turned to the mercenary lurking by the work bench. "Do you think the Simms boy would be interesting in becoming district manager?"

The mercenary just rolled his eyes, and Bittercup backed out of the store and away from Moira's peculiar brand of crazy. The sun was going down, and the putter of generators filled the night as the town's lights began to wink on. She caught sight of a sign up and to the right: Moriarty's Saloon.

Bittercup pushed open the bar's door and stepped inside. A few settlers were bellied up before a ghoul bartender, and off to the left a woman with short-cropped hair led a man upstairs. Bittercup stepped up to the bar, and snapped her fingers at the ghoul. "Hey, you. What's good?"

"How many caps you got?" the ghoul rumbled back.

"Give her a scotch, Gob," the man beside Bittercup said.

"Moriarty's already sick of your tab," Gob replied, but poured the drink anyway. The man looked at Bittercup appraisingly and spoke after a long moment.

"Jericho."

She raised her glass to him. "Bittercup."

"'Bittercup?'"

"'Jericho?'"

He grunted and gave up the point. "I don't know you. New here?"

"Passing through. Looking for a reason to stay the night." She sipped the drink and grimaced at the taste. Under Jericho's eye she held her nose and downed the liquid. Wiping her lips on the back of her hand, she returned his appraising look. His wiry muscle, stance and well-loved assault rifle suggested that he didn't spend all his time in the bar. "So where do you live, Jericho?" she asked, dragging his eyes back up to hers.

"'round the way," he replied, showing uneven teeth. At least he's clean, Bittercup thought. She stood, and let Jericho watch her ass as she walked to the door. He followed her outside and pulled her to the saloon's wall, pushing her back against it. Bittercup tilted her head back and Jericho was on her, parting her lips with his tongue. She sucked, grabbing his ass and grinding his groin against her. Bittercup bit down lightly, causing him to grunt and pull back.

"'round which way?" she asked, a bit breathless.

Jericho laid a firm guiding hand on the back of her neck, leading her down the walkway to one of the shacks. "You just leave it open?" she asked as Jericho pushed the door open to reveal a rude little room with no more furniture than a bed and a table.

"Nobody fucks with me, baby."

Bittercup placed a hand on his chest and leaned into him. "Really? Nobody?" she heaved a theatrical sigh. "Guess I'll have to leave."

Stepping back, Jericho opened his pants and began stroking himself to hardness. Bittercup smirked and turned away from him, unfastening her own pants. Lowering them to her knees she leaned over to place her palms on the table, offering a desirous look over her shoulder. He didn't need any further invitation, and a moment later she felt him sidle up behind her. She reached down and spread herself for him and felt the head of his cock push rudely into her. Jericho moaned and Bittercup grunted. He knew what he was doing and didn't care about being nice. _Whatever_ , Bittercup knew how to take care of herself; her fingers found her clit and suddenly Jericho's thrusting didn't seem so bad.

"Yeah," Jericho snarled, seizing her by the hips. "You like that, Jenny?" Bittercup didn't even bother to glare over her shoulder at him, lost in the haze of her own pleasure. She felt him twitch hard inside of her, and Jericho's fingers dug into her sides hard enough there'd be bruises later. He fell back from her, and without his distraction Bittercup found her rhythm and in moments she-

...

Wow.

She came to her senses a moment later, sprawled on her belly across the table. Jericho sat in a chair behind her, his cock still jutting out of his pants and wet. "You're good, girl. Nice and tight. I like a girl who knows her business." Bittercup faked a smile and cupped her slit; his come was already starting to work its way down her thigh and she liked these pants. "How about you and me get a round in with Nova? I'm buying..."

"I think I'm good for tonight," Bittercup collected his come and wiped it off on the table. She stood, pulling her pants back up and really looked at him. Jericho's leer didn't move higher than her chest. "See you around."

The arid Wasteland air hit her as she stepped outside, sending a faint chill through her. Bittercup walked quickly down the walkways, stopping only when she reached the light spilling out of the food shack. She took a stool and tried to sort out her twisted stomach. It wasn't like she'd never had bad lays before, and she wasn't even too mad at him for being such a short fuck. She'd gotten what she wanted from him.

"Hey, what can I get you?" a woman in a yellow jumpsuit asked. Bittercup waved her off. She'd wanted to stick it to Jack for sending her off, but she didn't feel any better for it.

"I really like him," Bittercup said to herself, surprised.

"Who's he?" the other woman asked.

"What? Oh, Jack. You wouldn't know him."

The waitress raised an eyebrow. "Jackson? That guy' Three Dog's been ranting about? Everyone's at least heard of him. The League, right?" Bittercup nodded. "I heard Lucy was thinking of taking her brother east to that Sanctuary place."

"Why?" Bittercup blurted before she could stop herself.

"There aren't a lot of people out there trying to make things better," the other woman said after a moment. "When someone comes along who can give you hope...well, that's something to hold on to."

Bittercup thought about it, and stood. "Well, thanks."

The other woman offered her hand. "I'm Jenny. Feel free to drop by the Brass Lantern any time."

"Jenny," Bittercup replied, freezing a bit as she recognized the name. She started up the steep incline that led to Megaton's front gate. "You keep yourself safe, all right?"

*

Dr. Li had been far more tractable than originally anticipated—evidently her time working with the Brotherhood had thoroughly soured her relations with Elder Lyons—and it took Jackson relatively little time to convince her to bring her research into agriculture to Sanctuary. Promises of free access to Enclave technologies secured her allegiance.

Ensuring that the new Aqua Pura delivery route was adhered to was another matter. The Rivet City security forces didn't complain about the changes, and if anything they appreciated the more concise route and the roads on which to travel. The Brotherhood paladins were more resistant. Though they weren't willing to defy Jackson, they were sullen and slow to obey. The worst of them was a Star Paladin named Cross, a Negro sporting the most atrocious haircut Jackson could imagine. She had been assigned as the Brotherhood liaison to Sanctuary, and clearly viewed this duty as a punishment. She shared the other paladin's resistance, on top of the intransigence inherent to her race. Jackson felt that it was a credit to his own character that he remained polite and civil in the face of her outright rudeness.

Understandably, it was a very long trip back to Sanctuary.

Jackson showed Cross to her quarters. He checked the interior windows –-the vertibird was in its place—and headed to the armory. It took fifteen minutes to strip out of his power armor and another ten to cleanse the grime of the Wasteland from his body. He used water freely and only felt a twinge of regret as he watched the last of in drain through the grating.

Wrapped in a large towel, Jackson padded down the hall to his quarters. The door yielded as he pushed the panel set into the frame, and he was several feet inside before he realized he wasn't alone.

"I talked with the lady you asked me to," Bittercup said from her seat on his bed, her hands clasped demurely over her crossed knees. "And a few others. They should be arriving in the next few days." Her gaze lingered.

"Thank you." Uncertainly, Jackson clenched his towel tighter. "Bittercup, I....I wanted to say that you have been a substantial help to me, and the League. Integral." He saw a frown at the unfamiliar word. "I never expected to find someone who I could trust as much as I trust you."

Bittercup blinked. "Trust?" Jackson cocked his head, a quizzical expression on his face. "Didn't expect that. Seriously, that's why you sent me away to Megaton? Because you trust me?"

"I find that I'm...very fond of you." Jackson found that he couldn't meet her eyes. "I found that...on the way back from Rivet City...I was distracted, thinking about you."

A smile tugged at her lips, Bittercup reached up and gently pulled his hands away from the towel, letting it slip down his body and pool on the floor at his feet. _This_ time his interest made itself quickly apparent. She stood and stripped quickly, efficiently, until she worn nothing but an expression of anticipation mingled with delight.

"C'mere," she said, crawling backwards on the bed and pulling him by the hand.

"Bittercup, I..." she pulled more insistently, and he slid over her. "I don't have any prophylactics." She glared at him with a mix of frustration and confusion. "I don't think either of us want to bring a child into this world."

"Fuck no," Bittercup replied, stroking his sides. "But that sort of thing isn't a problem for me. Red said I spent too much time in the radiation or whatever."

Her blasé tone surprised him. "That doesn't make you upset? Where I grew up, bearing children is a woman's most important duty."

"Why would it? You get knocked up, you're a mungo for sure. No way around it. Happened to Trinnie and she...she couldn't stay in Big Town after that." She spat on her hand crudely, and wrapped her fingers around his penis. "But that's not my problem, so it's not your problem. Come on," she looked him straight in the eye. "Trust me."

It took a little maneuvering to get him into position. If Bittercup noticed his awkwardness, she let it go without comment. She guided his penis into her and he gasped at the warm, sinking feeling as he slowly inched his way in. "Is this good?" he asked in a hoarse whisper. Bittercup's only answer was to draw her legs up, crossing them under his ass and using that leverage to urge him on.

Jackson lost himself in the rhythm of his hips, the sensation of her hands sliding over his back and her soft cooing encouragement in his ear. He dipped his head, crushing their lips together. He'd never felt this before and through the haze of lust a thought intruded that he really ought not to be so forward with her. That thought was quickly shunted aside by a sudden, rushing realization.

"Bittercup, I'm...I'm..." Her only response was to tighten her legs, pulling him deeper and doing _something_ to make her nethers clamp down on him. Jetting pleasure rolled over him, and he clutched at Bittercup, grunting for breath.

"I've got you," she whispered as he lay down beside her. "I've got you."

"Bittercup, that was..." Jackson panted.

"Hey," she looked him over, stroking his hair smooth. "Never done that before?"

Jackson felt his lips pull back; and involuntary smile. "No, I was never going steady with a girl in the Enclave long enough to..." he stopped as he realized what he'd said.

"The Enclave?" Bittercup stilled instantly next to him. "You...you're Enclave?"

"I _was_ a member of the Enclave." Bittercup sat up, looking down at Jackson uncertainly. "When you found me, I was...leaving. No one leaves the Enclave."

"That's why they were trying to kill you."

Jackson nodded. "The Enclave is so _insular_. They decided a long time ago that they know what's right, and to blazes with everything else." He sat up, and Bittercup leaned over the side of the bed, rooting through her jacket pockets for her cigarettes. She offered one to Jackson, and lit up with a shrug when he declined. "I was an intelligence officer. I correlated all of the radio chatter and eyebot information we received from the Capital Wasteland, and later from...other sources...and the picture it painted to me was drastically different than what the President's office was pushing. The Wastelands are savage to be sure, but most people are human. As deserving of life, liberty and the pursuit of happiness as any other citizen." He looked to Bittercup and she shrugged. Of course, she hadn't had civics indoctrination. "The Enclave's approach of forcing their hegemony isn't the best thing for the Capital Wasteland. It ignores the fantastic strengths of the people here."

"So they tried to kill you for not agreeing with them?" Bittercup asked between drags.

"Disagreeing with the President is unpatriotic," Jackson said simply. "Unpatriotic behavior is a capital offense."

"So now one of you is going to do what the whole Enclave couldn't?"

"Politics I conceive to be nothing more than the science of the ordered progress of society along the lines of greatest usefulness and convenience to itself. The Enclave is too arrogant to work along side anyone else, and the factions here in the Wasteland are too busy surviving to really figure out how to get ahead."

"You know what the really screwed up thing is, Jack? You're probably the best chance to actually make something out of this shithole." Bittercup rolled over to snub out her cigarette. "How fucking sad is that?"


	4. Chapter 4

Over the next several days, people began to arrive at Sanctuary. One or two Bittercup recognized from Megaton, a few more as wondering scavengers. Jack had made sure that Three Dog spread the word, and didn't seem to mind that the DJ told people about it by ranting about fascism or whatever.

Every few hours someone new would stumble in looking confused. Bittercup watched as Jack greeted each of them, explaining the rules. Anyone was allowed to stay, so long as they promised to work for Sanctuary. Those with any sort of science skill, like the Dr. Lesko guy who showed up from Greyditch, were sent to Dr. Li's crop machines or to Butch to help keep the Enclave equipment working. For all he bitched about being a barber and not knowing much about technology, Butch and the others from 101 knew more than anyone who grew up in the Wastes. People who didn't know anything about science were sent to Bittercup, who arranged them into militias and sent them to patrol around Sanctuary. Even the Brotherhood soldiers came to her for orders, and Bittercup loved how much it pissed them off. Losers who couldn't do anything useful at all went to work in Dr. Li's fields in Sanctuary's outer ring.

Seven times gangs of raiders clashed with Bittercup's patrols. Whether it was militia or the Brotherhood detachment, the results were the same; the patrol's energy weapons and not being fucking stupid mean that the fights ended with a few surviving raiders covered in bloody chunks of their buddies. The survivors were brought back to Sanctuary where Jack gave them a choice: get drafted or get shot. Bittercup loved how he gave his whole speech with his plasma rifle in hand. The new draftees were sent out with militias or to the fields, with Clover's explosive collars and an Enclave supply of "Citizen Pacification MDMA" to keep them in line.

They got almost as many new draftees as Sanctuary could use after Bittercup started sending her militias to wipe out raider camps near Sanctuary. Jack said that her plans of attack "indicated an aptitude for the strategic uncommon outside a military organization." Bittercup mostly just fucking hated raiders.

The first time Bittercup had found herself seriously arguing with Jack was actually over Little Lamplight. "An educated citizenry is the lifeblood of a nation," Jack had said. "We should transplant the Lamplighters to Sanctuary to insure their education and their safety." Bittercup argued that Lamplight did fine on its own, but remembered always being afraid of super mutants coming out of Murder Pass and eating nothing but cave fungus for years on end. It took two days for the militias to round up all fifty-seven Little Lamplighters, and Bittercup made damn sure they all got the best hot meals around when they got to Sanctuary.

Now, Bittercup walked through the outer ring, checking in with the overseers keeping the draftees working in the fields. Near the inner wall, Susie Mack and Moira were talking to a class of Lamplighters about science or something.

"Radiation is something that hurts us," Susie was saying, hands holding her mungo belly. "It damages our bodies and can change how you grow up. A lot of the time that will kill you, but sometimes it'll create new and different creatures like ghouls and yao guai. Did you know that before the bombs fell, yao guai were called bears and were only a third as big as they are now?" The kids were shuffling and restless and Moira spoke up, dopy grin on her face.

"You all have been really good, so we get to have the surprise I promised you!" She held out a tree branch, one end soaked in green goo. "Who wants to see a molerat's head explode?" The kids cheered.

Bittercup smiled and went inside. She found Jack in the conference room looking over the wall map of the Wastes with a woman in green armor with a little picture of a plant on the chest. Jack motioned Bittercup inside. "Have you met Reilly? She and her Rangers have been doing reconnaissance work in the DC ruins for me." Reilly nodded, and Bittercup waved at her.

"So what are we looking at?" Bittercup asked.

"A number of the smaller settlements have taken our direction and joined with more established towns. Arefu's residents have moved to Megaton, and the residents of Girdershade and Greyditch made the trip here," Jackson began.

"You invited that crazy bitch with the hard-on for Nuka-Cola?" interrupted Bittercup.

"It takes all types," Jack said. "What's concerning me is that there are a number of settlements that are refusing to consolidate." He pointed to the map. "The Oligarchy of Rosie, formerly the Republic of Dave before the Wanderer's opinions of polygamy came into play, Andale and Big Town."

"Well, shit, I'll go take the vertibird and some of the big guns and I'll get the assholes in Big Town to go somewhere else," Bittercup grinned. "I can't wait to see Red's face when I roll up on her."

Reilly spoke up. "I understand why you'd want to include Big Town and the Oligarchy as part of your League, sir. But I don't understand why you'd want to bring in the kind of people living in Andale."

"What sort of people is that?" Jack asked.

"Well, they're...they're cannibals, sir. I know there isn't a man in the Wastes who hasn't been tempted at one time or another, but...it's a way of life for them, sir."

Bittercup frowned. "Cannibals?"

"They eat people," Jack replied. "All right, new plan: send a militia squad to draft everyone in Andale. Cannibalism is...beyond the pale."

There was a knock at the door, and Bittercup turned to see Star Paladin Cross and Sentinel Lyons standing in the doorway. "We're here, Woodrow. What do you want?"

"Ah, welcome." Jack directed the women inside. "It's time to make our first definitive strike for civility in the Wastelands. You'll like it; we'll be hitting the super mutants."

Reilly gestured towards the ruins on the wall map. "The Rangers were contracted to scout the DC ruins and find out exactly what about the area is so important to the super mutants. Under the Museum of Technology, we found it: a vat of Forced Evolution Virus...and the super mutants have found it as well."

Lyons nodded. "We'd suspected there was something they were looking for."

"Then why didn't you _do_ anything about it?" Jack snarled, surprising Bittercup with his anger. He shook his head. "Regardless. Our objective is to fight our way into the Museum of Technology, make our way to the vat and destroy its contents. With the means of creating new super mutants eliminated, we can begin to work on actually eliminating them."

"And what brave souls have been volunteered for this assignment?" Lyons asked dryly.

"A small group will suffice," Jack ignored her taunt. "Bittercup and myself, Paladin Cross and the Lyon's Pride, with Reilly's Rangers offering support."

"Heart-breakers and life-takers, that's us," Bittercup grinned, flashing Dirge. Neither of the soldiers looked at her.

*

The front doors of the Museum of Technology shattered under the hail of energy from Paladin Glade's gatling laser. Inside several super mutants looked up from the hole punched in the atrium's floor, only to be cut down by massed fire from the rest of the Pride.

"That hole leads to a sub-basement," Reilly said, directing her Rangers in to defensive positions around the front door, protecting them from any super mutants who might try to follow them in from outside. "The FEV cache is in the north most end of the floor. We'll hold here."

"Cross, Vargas, take point. Woodrow, you coming?" Lyons snapped.

Jackson stood before the dais displaying the ruined Wright glider, running his hand along its shattered frame. Though his face was unreadable behind his helmet, his voice was reverent. "It's a shame."

"It's an ancient wreck is what it is."

"Come on, Jack." Bittercup swallowed a cocktail of Mentats and Buffout, her eyes already bearing the red tinge of Psycho intoxication. "Let's go do some damage." She readied her flamer, triggering a brief gout of flame for effect. Jackson had come to respect her skill with Dirge of Lament, but the combat ahead demanded that she be as well-armed as possible. Bittercup had selected the flamer herself, christening it Dark Purgation.

The followed the Pride down an impromptu ramp of rubble, passing into a decrepit hallway, the dark shapes of retired exhibits and storage containers visible through the shattered glass of the doors lining the hall. Whatever lighting that had illuminated this place was long since gone, and Jackson kicked in his optics. Lyons led her team down the corridor leading to the north, heedless of the countless side doors they passed as the rushed into the darkness. "Lyons," Jackson shouted ahead. "We need to clear the area before advancing!"

"Almost there, no contacts."

The heads-up display of Jackson's optics began generating red ticks on his compass. "Contacts! Many contacts incoming!" He grabbed Bittercup's arm, hurrying her ahead towards the Pride hoping to close the gap between them before the super mutants found them.

A roar reverberated down the hall, and a super mutant pushed through the door behind Jackson and Bittercup, between them and the ramp back up. "Haw! Meat!" it bellowed, leveling a rifle.

"Big yellow thing, fifty rounds rapid!" Lyons shouted.

"No! Dammit, we're in the w-!" Jackson dragged Bittercup down, shielding her with his armor as the super mutant disintegrated under the Pride's barrage. Stray rounds pinged off of Jackson's armor, chipping away at the grey paint to reveal the black beneath.

"God _dammit_ Lyons!" Jackson bellowed, pushing off the ground and crossing to the Pride. "I do not care what you think of me. But if Bittercup is hurt...If one of us dies, your Squire Maxson dies. And everyone within twenty feet of him! Use your head and check your targets!"

"Bastard," Lyons snapped back. "I don't know how, but some day you'll pay for-"

"Commander," Cross intervened. "There is a foul stench on the wind."

"Oh, fuck!" Bittercup screamed. "Jack! They're coming! They're-"

Doors ahead and behind the group burst open, super mutants lumbering into the hall, firing erratically. Jackson ducked down, snapping off a shot of plasma into the nearest monster and cursing himself for allowing his emotions to overcome his senses. Behind him Paladin Kodiak shrieked as beams from a laser rifle—they had _laser_ rifles? They can _use energy weapons_?—pierced his armor. The super mutants kept coming, crushing the group from both sides.

"Fuck this!" Bittercup snarled, triggering her flamer. The nearest super mutant disappeared behind a sheet of flame, the whoosh of fire just barely obscuring the monster's screams. "Fuck you! And fuck you!" She stepped over charred corpses, waving the spray of flame ahead of her.

In an instant she was on the ground, flamer skittering out of her hands. One of the charred super mutants had clamped a hand around her ankle, and dragged her closer with bestial fury. "No!" Jackson gasped. He cleared the distance to the monster in a heartbeat, and with assistance from the armor's servos brought his boot down on its head with a sickening crunch. Bittercup pulled herself free, lost enough in the haze of chems that Jackson wasn't sure she'd even registered the interruption of her carnage.

The battle was furious, but over in moments. A dozen super mutants lay dead before the Pride's coordinated fire and Bittercup's fury. They picked their way through the corpses to the end of the hall, and pushed into the last room. Inside squatted a tank with its top rudely torn off, exposing the noxious green liquid suspension of the Forced Evolution Virus. Several Wasteland settlers lay nearby; deformed by exposure but not warped into super mutants and unfortunately strong enough to linger. "Quick deaths would be merciful," Jackson directed. For once the paladins didn't argue.

Bittercup angled the nozzle of Purgation over the edge of the tank, igniting the contents with a gout of flame. She kept up the fire until the last wisp of FEV had been burned clean.

"Let this be the first page of our legacy," Jackson intoned. "The beginning of the end of the super mutants. After today the people of the Wasteland can sleep just a little bit more soundly."

*

It was night time before Bittercup really came back to herself.

She realized she was puking up liquid, and by the mess in front of her she'd been at it a while. "F-fuck," she gasped, feebly wiping the vomit from her armor. What the fuck _happened_? The only time she'd felt even close to this bad was when she and Kimba scavenged a crate of whiskey and sat around all afternoon drinking it, and even then they'd at least ended up in bed.

Had she ended up in bed with someone?

Jack, sure. Bittercup pushed into the haze of her memories. Taking chems...Jack had said the fighting was going to be bad, so she'd doubled up on her usual dose. After that was darkness and fire...being knocked around...hatred. The feeling of just wanting to rip someone apart. Was this how raiders felt all the time?

Bittercup stumbled to her feet—she was in her quarters, good—and made her way to the wash room. She stripped out of her armor, dressing in her customary belly shirt, vest, leather pants and prize boots. By the time she'd strapped Dirge of Lament on to her hip, she almost felt human again.

She made it downstairs without a problem, and dimly recognized Jack's voice. Following it she found herself outside where Jack was giving a bunch of newcomers the welcome speech. The words couldn't penetrate the fog around her brain, and it wasn't until he said her name for a third time that she realized the speech was over and he was talking to her.

"Yeah, hey," she croaked.

Jack leaned in to look at her. "Are you all right?"

"'m hungover as fuck," Bittercup got out. "Seriously, Jack, what the fuck did we _do_ toda-" Abruptly she felt a hand grope her ass and interrupted herself with a yelp. She spun, and froze at the sight of Jericho grinning at her.

"Hey baby," he said, grasping her by the back of the neck and pulling her in for a kiss. "Heard you were in on this League thing and thought I'd come check it out."

Out of the corner of her eye Bittercup caught a glimpse of Jack's outraged look. "What is this?! Unhand her!"

"Whoa buddy," Jericho smirked. "I don't know what your angle is, but I'm just following up on our little get-together last week."

"What?" Jack whispered, his face going white.

Something in Bittercup's guts went cold. "Jericho, for fuck's sake shut up. Jack, I can explain..."

"I trusted you," Jack hissed. "I _trusted you_." He drew his plasma pistol, leveling it at Jericho's chest. "You. Get out. Run." Jericho backed away, hands raised, before turning and sprinting for the gate. Jack lowered the pistol as the other man disappeared, and Bittercup tried to catch his eyes.

"It's not like that, Jack. I mean-"

"I made you my confidant. In my plans and in my _bed_. And this is how you honor that trust, you jezebel. I didn't realize how meaningless it was for you."

"It's not like that, it was before you got back from Rivet City-"

Jack holstered his pistol—that's good, right? Bittercup thought desperately—and snarled lowly. "Lie to yourself all you want. Don't you dare lie to me. Militia!" A couple of Wastelanders approached—Bittercup vaguely remembered sending them against a raider nest—and Jack waved them towards her. "Take her to Paradise Falls. Send Clover my _regards_."

"What? No!" Dirge was in her hand, but one of the militia twisted her arm around until she dropped it. "Jack, don't do this!" But Jack just turned away from her, even as the collar clicked into place around her neck.

*

The atmosphere in Sanctuary's conference room was tense. Reilly, Cross, Butch and Susie sat around the table, each looking distinctly nervous. Jackson sat at the head of the table, reclining thoughtlessly in his chair. He idly picked at the paint beginning to flake off his armor as Cross spoke. "An equipment breakdown at Project Purity caused a delay in distribution of Aqua Pura. It's nothing to worry about."

"Nothing to worry about,' Jackson repeated dully. "The Brotherhood is in charge of administering Project Purity and entrusted with getting water to each of the League settlements." He raised his eyes to meet hers, glowering. "And yet you allow these delays—which are accidental, I'm _certain_ —to deprive our citizens of what is theirs by right."

"Our scribes are working on it," Cross replied levelly.

"See to it that they are. I will be extremely displeased if I have to go to Purity myself to encourage the repairs along." Jackson pressed his fingers against his forehead, trying to stave off a coming migraine.

"Well, the school is up and running," Susie offered. "The kids had a little trouble adjusting, but as they settled into our schedule with food and good beds. They have huge deficiencies in their basic understandings, but Freddie, Moira and I have split them into cohorts based on ability."

"Good," Jackson nodded and quickly regretted it. "What else? Reilly?"

"Well, the militia's been patrolling on schedule for a few days now. They're picking off raiders and wildlife here and there, but it looks like we've eliminated all of the holdouts in the area. We haven't gotten any reports of attacks from any of the allied settlements."

"Good. Good!" Jackson felt a hint of a smile ghost across his face. "That's how it should be. From this foundation of civility, the entire Wasteland can be bettered."

"Right," Reilly replied. Her voice was steady, but her eyes flitted back and forth uncertainly.

"What?" Jackson demanded. "Speak your minds."

"Well," Susie coughed to clear her throat. "It's just that it's good to be safe from raiders and super mutants, but I think a lot of people would like to have more of a say in how things go in the League."

"The man who is swimming against the stream knows the strength of it," Jack muttered. More loudly: "With all respect due, the people of the Wasteland have shown what they can do on their own. In time, we can create a Congress of citizens to guide the League."

"And what of those of the Brotherhood who would rather not have Squire Maxson living under constant threat of death?" Cross demanded lowly.

"You must pay the price if you wish to secure the blessing, paladin."

Butch glowered. "You're just another tyrant. We read about your kind in school back in the Vault. You think you know how everyone else should live their lives."

"I have spent months plotting every faction, every condition," Jackson replied. "The League _is_ the best use of resources available to us all."

"Dress it up however you want," Butch snapped. "You're no different than the Chinese communists back in the Great War!"

Jackson was on his feet in a heartbeat. "You _dare-_ " he stopped short at the pistol in Butch's hand, pointed right at his eye.

"Better dead than Red," Butch snarled, pulling the trigger.

Jackson froze, wondering why he wasn't dead. The smug look on Butch's face disappeared as he frantically tried to clear the jammed round from his gun's chamber. With a roar Jackson gripped the table and flipped it on its side, clearing the space between himself and Butch in an instant. Butch got his hands up to protect himself, but the strength of Jackson's armor allowed him to muscle past, landing one crushing blow after another. He was dimly aware of Reilly hurrying Susie out of the room to safety, and Cross hauling him away from Butch's huddled form.

"Disunion...by force..." he panted, shaking the paladin off, "is treason. Have him taken to Paradise Falls. It is _unfortunate_ that such measures continue to be necessary." The migraine made itself known with a vengeance, and Jackson gripped his forehead with a grimace, leaving smears of blood. "I wish this wasn't _necessary_..."


	5. Chapter 5

Bittercup gasped desperately for air, falling away from Butch as Clover released her hair. With her arms chained behind her back, Bittercup awkwardly tried to clean her saliva and Butch's fluid from her lips by smearing it on her shoulder. She leaned back against the ugly heart-shaped bed, panting for breath.

Standing over her kneeling toys, Clover grinned at Bittercup's attempt at dignity. "See, that's what Eulogy used to call a 'lung buster,'" she sneered. "You're no where near my best time, but we'll practice. You'll get there."

Bittercup had lost track of days; Clover's pad had no windows, and they were fed when Clover decided they'd been humiliated to her satisfaction. Bittercup tried to catch Butch's eye, but he still ignored her; he was the closest thing she had to a friend in this hellhole, even if he was only here so Clover could use his cock to hurt her.

At least he'd stopped sobbing like a bitch every time Clover made her get him up.

Butch was 'dressed' the same as Bittercup; in a collar and a harness Clover had gotten from her new business partners in the Pitt. Clover had awarded them with the harnesses with a big to-do about how they were starting the first day of the rest of their lives. At first Bittercup thought she was just grandstanding, but as she went on Bittercup realized she was quoting something Eulogy had said to her.

"Up, my pretties!" Clover said. "On your feet! We have a guest." Bittercup heard the low whine of power armor and just for a moment felt hope that maybe he'd changed his mind and she could go home. Then, struggling to her feet, she saw the visitor and gasped.

Striding tall in her armor, Sentinel Lyons took in the scene before her with disgust. Bittercup tried to twist away from her gaze, but with her arms trapped behind her back there was no way to protect her modesty. Butch didn't even seem to notice.

"Welcome to Paradise Falls, paladin," Clover said. She drew the ornate sword she kept on her hip and pressed the flat of the blade against the small of Bittercup's back, then up under her chin, forcing her to straighten her posture. "I understand that you wanted to talk to Ella here."

Lyons looked Bittercup over. "Ella?"

"Oh yeah. Ella and Louis. Some of my favorite performers of those pre-war songs Three Dog plays."

"Her name isn't Ella."

"And my name wasn't _fucking Clover_!" The other woman bellowed. Lyons only raised an eyebrow and Clover composed herself. "Sorry," she muttered. "You wanted to talk to her."

Clover stepped back, but Bittercup didn't dare relax as the paladin took her place. She felt the flush of shame as the other woman looked her up and down. "I had thought," Lyons began, "that your recent reversal of fortunes might leave you more open to the Brotherhood's point of view."

"I'm listening," Bittercup croaked.

"What Woodrow is doing is arrogant and domineering. He is interfering in the plans of the Eastern Brotherhood Elders."

"So you're mad because 'arrogant' and 'domineering' are your thing, and he's getting in on your business?"

Lyons didn't rise to the bait. "This man condemned you to the Falls because of...what? Some imagined slight?" She lowered her voice, speaking in the whisper of a confidant. "Help me. Help me to offer a benevolent alternative to Woodrow's League, and I just may be able to buy you out of your enslavement."

Bittercup refused to meet the paladin's eyes. "Do you...do you promise?"

"No. But what else do you have?"

"Jackson," Bittercup began, then the words flew from her. "He's...he's Enclave. He used to be. He had some falling out with them over how they treated Wastelanders."

Lyons nodded. "An Enclave agent. I knew it. What else?"

"Look, I just want to go home..."

"Right now this is your home."

"All right, all right." Bittercup looked at the floor. "The collar we put on the boy-"

"The _explosive_ collar _you_ put on _Arthur_ ," Lyons corrected.

"That one. The...the Enclave 'black box' tech? It's bunk. Something Jack whipped up to look complex so you wouldn't screw with."

The paladin grabbed Bittercup's chin, forcing her eyes up. "This is extremely important. Arthur is precious to me. If you're lying..."

"I'm not! I'll take it off myself! It's just a normal slave collar!" Lyons released her, stepping back.

"No. You've done quite enough." She turned to leave. "I've heard what I wanted to hear."

"Wait!" Bittercup dared to take a step forward, but retreated at Clover's enraged glare. "Aren't you...aren't you going to take me with you?"

The paladin glanced over her shoulder. "I might be back." And she was gone.

"Good girl, Ella," Clover cooed as the door closed behind Lyons. "Back on your knees, both of you. Bittercup and Butch struggled to drop to their knees without falling over from their skewed balance. Hopefully, Bittercup raised her voice. "Clover...?"

With casual brutality, Clover swung her sword around and down, smashing the butt of the hilt into Bittercup's nose. Bittercup fell backwards and yelped as pain and blood flowed freely. She struggled to roll onto her side, to take the strain off of her abused shoulders, but froze when she saw the point of Clover's sword at her eye.

"What did you call me, Ella?"

"Master."

"Close enough. You're lucky. Eulogy just raped the shit out of me an' Crimson when we made that mistake." Her tone demanded a response, and Bittercup gave it in a mumble.

"Thank you, master."

Clover grinned broadly. "See? I can be nice. What's your question, Ella?"

Bittercup squirmed upright, the rough concrete floor scraping against her fair skin. "I...can I have some Buffout? Or Psycho, or Mentats? Please master, I feel like my skin's crawling..."

Clover gripped her toy's collar, inspecting Bittercup's face. "I thought you were jonesing," she said. "That's a bunch of shit you've got yourself hooked on, Ella. Didn't anybody tell you chems are dangerous?"

"I didn't think...it'd happen to me."

Clover released her collar and Bittercup fell back. "Sure you didn't." Cover stalked to the table beside her ridiculous heart-shaped bed. "I'll bet when you're riding high on all that stuff you just feel like the smartest...the strongest...the queen of the fucking universe." Bittercup nodded fervently, and Clover plucked an item from the table. Hiding it behind her back, she returned to stand over Bittercup. "Problem is, I want you dumb, weak...and to remember that _I'm_ the queen of the fucking universe. But like I said, I can be nice." She revealed the item from behind her back: an inhaler of Jet. "Take a hit of this. Makes all of your problems go away."

"No," Bittercup said, shying away. "I don't...that's not what I need."

"I don't give a fuck what you need. That burning you're feeling now isn't going to get any better, and I'm trying to help you out here." Clover held the inhaler waist-high and waited. Bittercup looked at the inhaler for a long moment, before slowly struggling up on her knees and straining to reach it. "Atta girl, Ella," Clover cooed as Bittercup pressed her lips around the inhaler. It tasted like shit. Then the rush hit her and she didn't care.

*

Jackson contemplated shaving as he stepped out of the shower, but realized he didn't care and it didn't matter. He dressed efficiently in his power armor, each of the fastenings familiar under his fingers. At least the armor hadn't betrayed him.

Once clad, he strode out into Sanctuary's first-floor hallway. Reilly's call had shaken him from his reverie, and it wouldn't do to keep his guests waiting. He entered the conference room—repaired and cleaned since Butch's fumbled assassination attempt a week and a half ago—and Reilly announced the visitors. "Hannibal Hamlin of the Temple of the Union and Lucas Simms of the Regulators."

"Sheriff Simms," Jackson said, offering a firm handshake. No sense in being rude; the man was clearly quite accomplished despite his racial handicap. "Strange to see you so far from Megaton."

"Hamlin had some concerns, and I wanted to see to it that they were taken seriously," Simms replied. "I'd like to hear your answers to them myself, actually."

"Of course," Jackson replied with considerably less enthusiasm. "Mr. Hamlin," he said by way of offering a seat. As the three of them and Reilly settled in their chairs, Jackson asked, "So what can I do for you?"

Hamlin cleared his throat. "As I'm sure you know, Mr. Woodrow, the Temple of the Union is an organization dedication to abolition in the Wastes. That your League uses slavery-"

"Drafting," Jackson interrupted. "I think you'll find the concepts distinct."

"I think I don't, sir," Hamlin replied. "Whatever you choose to call it, the act deprives human beings of their freedom."

"I think you'll agree that there are some humans for whom the rest of society would benefit from a certain lack of freedom," Jackson retorted. "Or you believe that we should allow the raiders we've captured to go back to their marauding ways?"

"My concern is your casual use of slavery as a punishment."

"I disagree with the idea that it's being applied casually," Jackson said. "It is...a blunt tool, to be certain. And one I hope that we can refine into part of a continuum of consequences in the coming months."

Hamlin shook his head. "Freedom is the right of all sentient beings. That anyone would ever try to take it away is unconscionable."

"Well I suppose it's fortunate you're not in charge."

Hamlin looked aghast, and Reilly shifted uncomfortably in her seat. Simms broke the silence. "Hamlin's not the only one who has a problem with your draftees," he rumbled. "The other Regulators and I have been talking. We're of the thinking that it's beyond the pale for simple crime and punishment."

"Oh for Heaven's sake." Jackson's calm broke. "The _Regulators_ have a problem with this? I'm doing the same thing you always claim to: _I am bringing justice to the Wasteland_. I'll be the first to admit that it's flawed, but it is a system that can be improved upon, which is far better than the anarchy that has reigned here." He turned in his chair, pointing a damning finger at Hamlin. "Like it or not, Paradise Falls serves a purpose in the League. And if any of yours—or the Regulators, for that matter—interfere, then you will serve the League as draftees rather than as loyal opposition!"

Simms remained impassive. Hamlin's face turned scarlet, but it was actually Reilly who spoke. "My God," she whispered. "I thought that Bittercup had been given out secrets or something, but...you just sent her off because you got pissed. Didn't you?"

Jackson didn't look at her. "Get out. All of you. You've received your warning."

"Yeah," Reilly said, rising with the others. "Don't expect to see the Rangers around here tomorrow."

Jackson watched them go, something dark twisting its way through his guts. He stood carelessly, knocking over his chair, and left the room. Downstairs to his quarters-

For a moment he saw Bittercup perched at the foot of the bed with her hands clasped over her knees. _That_ night. He yanked open the cabinet over the sink, accidentally tearing free with the armor's strength, and claimed his prize. "The Good Shit," she had called it when she gifted it to him. It was a thoughtful gesture.

She'd probably just been trying to muddle his thinking so she could use him.

Jackson eyed the half-empty bottle, unscrewed the cap and took a swig, grimacing at the burning. It was far simpler in the Enclave. If you were going steady with a girl for more than six months and she wasn't pregnant, you weren't doing your duty to the government. None of this confusing mess of affection and, and...love? No. The eugenicists matched you with your partner and you did you duty.

A notable portion of The Good Shit was gone. Jackson guffawed at the accuracy of _that_. He'd expected resistance from the Brotherhood, and—at least until the League became better established—from the other Wasteland factions. It was only natural. But once you demonstrate that you have a good product, "The best product," he slurred, people would come running. Governments themselves weren't evil; evil came from their abuses. His government wasn't abusive, was it?

Bittercup.

Oh shit.

An alarm went off in his armor, warning of possible user poisoning. Which was _ridiculous_ because The Good Shit wasn't that bad. He toggled the alarm off and drained the rest of the bottle contemplatively. The idea of Bittercup with another man even as she worked with him to build the League enraged him. But even when he thought about her doing...doing _things_ with that brigand, it didn't erase the fawning desire he had to be with her, to hear her crass jokes and feel her sensual touch. He had sent her away in a fit of rage to be sure, and no tribunal in the Enclave would condemn him for it, but privately Jackson was beginning to wonder if sending her away hadn't been an abuse itself. Wasn't he trying to build something better than the Enclave?

That settled it. Jackson struggled to rise from the bed, but somehow ended up flat on his back. Just as soon as he could get up though, he was going to Paradise Falls and taking Bittercup out. If he could forgive her, she should be able to forgive...him...

...

Discontinuity.

Jackson struggled to his feet, moaning at the nausea rising in his gut. His head was roaring like the vertibird was trying to take off in his skull.

Wait. That _was_ the vertibird taking off.

Jackson bolted from the bed, promptly tripping over his own feet and collapsing on the floor. He struggled to his feet, fighting to keep his gorge down, and made his way towards the operations center overlooking the vertibird pad at Sanctuary's center. He encountered no people on his way, just eerie silence. Sanctuary was abandoned.

As he entered the operations center, he could hear the radio. He fought nausea to pay attention. "...and girls, listen up 'cause I've got an urgent public announcement. Not two weeks after a combined squad of Brotherhood heroes and our new League overlords took out the last big pit of super mutants, something's got the whole lot of them riled up. I'm hearing reports of dozens, maybe even a hundred super mutants stampeding north out of the DC ruins. I dunno what pissed 'em off so bad, but if you're in their way I'd suggest you find somewhere else to be. Stay safe, children."

Jackson knew he wasn't thinking as well as he should have been, but the pieces fit themselves together quickly. Sanctuary had been evacuated of everyone but him, a mob of super mutants was rampaging this way, and the vertibird—his only real chance at escape—had been stolen. It didn't take a graduate of the Enclave's war college to put together what happened. He seized the radio transmitter and set it to broadcast on all frequencies.

"Lyons! I know you're listening," he shouted. Static hissed back, and after a moment Lyons' voice came through.

"I was hoping I'd get to talk to you. Sorry if I'm a little distracted, but we've got a lot of super mutants following us. Don't worry, we'll be at Sanctuary's gate in no time."

"What the hell are you doing, Lyons?"

"I was going to just put a bullet in your face after your girlfriend explained about the 'black box' technology you put in Squire Maxson's collar," she replied, "but there are some people who actually think what you're doing is good. People the Brotherhood is going to need to unite under our banner. No one's going to blame us for the super mutants killing you, though."

Jackson could make out gunfire and the roar of super mutants behind her voice. " _Listen to me._ The League I have created is the single best hope for lasting peace and a unified Wasteland. Don't do this, Lyons. We're so _close_."

"The Enclave started this war, Woodrow. I don't Goddamn care what underhanded approach you take to conquer the Wastes. War never changes, and I'm going to see every one of you bastards run out of DC." With a click she stopped transmitting, and Jackson realized he could hear the super mutant's bellows in the night air.

He pushed away from the desk, into the corridor and stumbled downstairs to the armory. He dumped plasma mines into a satchel, and began strapping energy pistols to his legs. Carrying fresh, loaded weapons would probably be more important than clips of ammo he wouldn't have time to load. Belatedly he cast about for his helmet, only then remembering that it lay at the foot of his bed. No time for it now. Swearing, he slipped a bandolier of grenades and shouldered a collection of energy rifles. He was halfway to the door when one last weapon caught his eye; Dirge of Lament. Jackson stared at it for a moment, then found a spot to holster it under his arm.

Lyon's voice was coming from the radio but Jackson ignored it as he made his way to the hall, weighed down by his arsenal. Sanctuary's layout flashed in Jackson's mind as he planned his defense; Lyons would undoubtedly lead them to the weakest point of Sanctuary's outer ring, which would be the gate. If there were as many as it sounded like, they would breach the gate in fairly short order and make their way to the inner building. There wasn't going to be time to pick them off from on top of the outer walls, so it was going to have to come down to mining the way between the gate and the inner building and then fire on them as they tried to approach. The din of the super mutants was getting louder and there wasn't much time to lay out the mines-

The front gate was standing open.

Jackson realized he wasn't surprised; the Brotherhood was competent, and accordingly so was its betrayal. He struggled for a new defense plan and for the first time realized the depth of the danger; if they could get past the outer wall, there was no stalling them. No defense.

The first of the super mutants entered through the gate and bellowed at the sight of Jackson. The roar shook Jackson out of his stupor and he fled back inside, tossing plasma mines behind him as he ran. He'd made it upstairs when the explosions began.

He left a few more mines on the stairs and burst into the conference room with its windows overlooking the gate. More super mutants than could be counted poured inside, heading with purpose towards the same door Jackson had disappeared into. He spared a moment to wonder how Lyons had gotten away and decided that was something he'd have to ask her after she'd been drafted.

The first order of business would be to keep the super mutants outside, where they could be more easily dealt with. Leaning out the window he sighted along his rifle and began picking off super mutants. Predictably, they stopped advancing and opened fire on the window. Jackson huddled down against the onslaught, and started lobbing grenades over the sill into the crowd.

More explosions below, this time inside and dangerously close by. Maybe they weren't all as dumb as they looked. Jackson got into the hallway in time to see a super mutant reach the top of the stairs. It went down quickly under his fire, but more of the horde was close behind. Jackson retreated back to the conference room, firing wildly and discarding his last rifle as he went. The super mutants waded through the bodies of their fellows but couldn't make it through the door for the sheer volume of fire Jackson threw at them with his pistols.

He'd lost track of how many super mutants he'd burned down, but Jackson knew there were more of them than he had energy cells remaining. He emptied yet another plasma pistol into the mass of yellow rage and bolted for the window; outside he'd be able to evade them on the open ground and get away-

A massive hand clamped down on his shoulder with a brutal finality. It picked Jackson up and hurtling him against the wall. He looked up in time to see the brute bring a sledgehammer down into his side and Jackson screamed as his armor gave way, driving ceramic shards into his intestines. Jackson fired wildly, and a burst of plasma liquefied the creature's face and blackened what was left of its skull.

Jackson slumped down against the wall, feebly trying to stop the blood flowing from his side. Abandoning his last exhausted plasma pistol, he drew Dirge of Lament. Aiming it waveringly at the monsters, he gritted his teeth and tried desperately to crawl towards the window before realizing he couldn't move his legs. "Well then?" he hissed. "Come on."

The super mutants just grinned. They'd run him to ground and they knew it. "Fresh meat," one chuckled.

"Fresh meat!" another roared, and Jackson put a bullet into its throat. That didn't stop the rest, who swarmed forward. One grabbed his right arm and with loathsome ease tore it from his body, casting it and Bittercup's gun across the room. Jackson's last thought before the darkness mercifully took him was that Bittercup would be furious at the blood he'd gotten on the ribbon around the grip.

*

Bittercup staggered into the blinding sunlight, propelled by Mistress' shove. She blinked and rubbed her eyes; it was the first time she'd been outside since getting to Paradise Falls.

"I thought she kept your hands chained up," a familiar voice mocked, "so you couldn't get into any trouble."

"I showed Mistress that I could be trusted," Bittercup said, shielding her eyes. She had to squint through the glare even still. The figure before her slowly resolved into Sentinel Lyons in her power armor.

"I thought you'd want to know, there was an incident," the paladin said. "Sanctuary was overrun by super mutants. The Brotherhood managed to evacuate most of the people..."

"...Jack...?"

"The team we sent in afterwards found most of him. I'm afraid the super mutants were quite thorough."

Bittercup was silent. Jack had put her here, but he was also the only person on the outside who gave a fuck about her. Red wouldn't come to rescue her. Jericho wouldn't. "You said...you said you'd buy me out of here if I helped you."

"I said I'd think about it. And I have." Lyons leaned in. "The danger you put Arthur in is unforgivable." Bittercup's heart dropped. Lyons wouldn't. "You're an Enclave collaborator of the worst kind, and I've decided that you very much deserve your fate."

"We..." Bittercup began. "We're all gonna die sooner or later. Hopefully sooner. I hope."

Lyons gave her a nasty smile. "Well, let me just say that I wish you a long, long life." Bittercup flinched at the dismissal, but only a little. It was hard to feel any more. Bittercup turned slowly and made her way back to the pad, trudging back to her Mistress.


End file.
